


A True Blue Miracle

by ohgod



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: "Kid Fic", Abstract discussion of incest, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mental Illness, Trans Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgod/pseuds/ohgod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But the greatest wonder of them all is not what's happening around you, it's the way you start to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 12, 2012

**Author's Note:**

> i recently re-read what i had written for this prompt:
> 
> http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/350.html?thread=1445470#t1445470
> 
> and realized i still liked it very much, which is no small feat when nearly two years had passed. i have only made minor edits.
> 
> as a note, my idea of vanessa coalesced before the original writer of PR had his gay panic.

"Gammy?"  
  
Newt knocked twice on the kid's door. He had made it through two episodes of ANTM,  _two_ , without any interruptions. And, like, okay, so technically it was "past bedtime" or whatever (it was eight-thirty, what ten year old actually went to bed at eight-thirty? Not one, and it was a Friday, and dumb rules were made to be broken, and brownies were made to be made. And eaten. Probably with the last of Hermann's special coconut milk ice cream cause that shit is bangin wait)  
  
There was a whimper, a cough and a long wet suck of mucus back into tiny nostrils. Newt opened the door only after he received the tiniest, most bedraggled, "Cmin."  
  
"Jules, you okay?" Newt slipped in, squinting against the dim (the teal dinosaur nightlight didn't facilitate the best observational conditions, but it was something that made him jealous of a ten year old, so). "Got worried, you know, when you didn't show up for the usual super, super not allowed dessert buffet."  
  
"Mfine." There was a lump on the bed, right in the middle, but her spectacles -- and, yeah, Hermann's kid, yep, better believe they were spectacles -- were off, which meant shit was serious.   
  
Shit was really serious, and Newt began bouncing on the soles of his feet. "Okay, good. Great. Cuz it totally sounded like you were crying or something, and I thought maybe you were hurt?"  
  
"Nhurt."  
  
"Sweet, so, you're just ditching me and brownies and your dad's special ice cream  _and_  Zigra?" Way too guilt-trippy, chill out, dude. Just because you wanted to hang with Jules and eat the stupid ice cream -- "I mean, if you really don't want to, it's fine. It's actually fine. I can watch some more of Tyra Banks's weird alien face and, like, psychotic breakdown on national television, but, um, usually you're pretty amped for Maths Reception Nights, and -- "  
  
"SHUT UP," The lump shrieked, not unlike a very small pterodactyl, and the lump writhed as it hollered: "I HATE YOU."  
  
Okay, ouch.  
  
Newt tapped out a quick text to Hermann ("yo talk when ur home") instead of yelling back or even talking back because  _no way_  Jules hated him, no way, something was just seriously, seriously not great right now. Seriously, lemming brain, chill, she doesn't hate you. Great, anxiety over a ten year old who you're basically co-parenting okay nope nope wait nope nope --  
  
Honesty: best policy, eighty-five percent of the time. "That ... really hurts my feelings, but I'm not gonna, you know, make you talk about whatever's probs turned you into a slime monster, so I'll go, if you want."  
  
The lump wriggled and slowly inched up the mattress. Jules, face dark and covered in an assortment of crust, grabbed her spectacles, shoved them up her nose and shook her head.  
  
"Need to words, kiddo."  
  
"Don't go," She looked so little, so tiny and miserable, but Newt stayed against the wall, waiting, "An I don't hate you. Aunt Beast."  
  
"Aw, man, can I give you a hug?"  
  
She nodded rapidly, and he Speed-Racer!'d over (haha, and grabbed the Kleenexes en route, score). She pushed her face and thick lenses into his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her waist and subtly nudged her hand with a tissue. Super subtly. Like maybe just wedged it right in between her fingers, subtly, because her face actually felt  _grainy_ , and she actually had insanely sensitive skin? So she'd get all scaly, then again, Gamera'd be scaly, aaaaaand focus.  
  
"Before Papa left," She muttered, tearing up the tissue into aloe-enhanced confetti, "Um, I. I didn't mean to forget! I keep a notebook, of everything, but I forgot, and I didn't want to, so I asked Papa, I asked him, um, what was the song Mommy always used to sing, when she made brownies, because I wanted you to sing it because anyway and, um, he looked really mad, really really mad, and then he  _didn't know_ , and he left." She hiccuped.  
  
Newt passed over a fresh tissue, and he popped his glasses onto the top of his head.  
  
Shit was  _the most serious_.

"So, like, I don't actually live in your dad's head, which is great because I'd be totally la -- um, uncool otherwise, and you'd never get to watch any non-educational movies, right? But, if I had to guess, which, you tell me, if this sounds like a good guess, maybe he was just upset. Which can be different from angry, uh, like ... remember when Splotchy died?"  
  
Jules nodded, grabbing a fresh tissue to rip up.  
  
"Well, you felt, like, sad, right? But you weren't mad at Splotchy for dying."  
  
"That's upset," Julia twisted a tendril of tissue thoughtfully, "Maybe he was upset because ... he doesn't remember either?"  
  
"Maybe. Guess we'll have to ask him, when he gets back. In the meantime, uh. I'd. I'd let you read me the notebook. But I totally get if that's private -- "  
  
She had already draped herself over the side of the bed, and she jammed her hands under the mattress (haha, they were -- Hermann was  _in for it_  when she was sixteen, totally in for it). She came back up with the lost math homework notebook. Jules snapped on the light and stuck herself to his side.  
  
He felt how big the breath she took in was, and he swallowed. There was a picture of Vanessa, some kind of book jacket flap shot where some idiot photographer had tried to soften up the light so she'd look feminine, but she was still too sharp, brilliant and smirking, taped right over where they had written "Math Homework" together, the picture, that was, and --  
  
"Mommy, this is Newton Geiszler. Newt. He's getting a. This is kind of silly, I guess," Jules flicked the hard cover, voice wobbly-full of water.  
  
"Don't leave her hanging, dude!" Newt squeezed her shoulder, shit, his voice was wobbly-full of water too.  
  
Julia took another huge breath in: "Newt's getting a Pee Aitch Dee in biochemistry, and he's my Aunt Beast. Newt, this is my mommy, Vanessa Sycamore. She's ... she was a classi. Classicist and really smart and really pretty and always won arguments with Papa, so pay attention."  
  
" _Hey_ ," Newt laughed, "Well, it's rad to meet you, Vanessa. Van? Teach me your ways."  
  
(After the sixth increasingly  _weird_  buzz from Hermann -- "Please respond at your earliest convenience; I have never meant to make you feel uncomfortable, but I understand if you would like to terminate your position with me." -- Newt excused himself from Jules and Van to tap out, "dude what even its about julia but its pretty okay now just need to talk")


	2. 16 April 2011

Hermann put down his pen and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Problem sets were not for his benefit; after nearly ten years of teaching, he had both the prompts and correct answers memorized. He, in fact, had the most common variants of incorrect answers memorized and could even trace the logic in the errors. So he was doubly frustrated that 'spring fling' had affected his students. Many of the undergraduates had simply failed to turn in the assignment, with no accompanying self-flagellating email, and the hurried scrawl of some doctoral candidates suggested an early morning, and likely hungover, rush to save face.

He certainly did not need to waste a precious Saturday afternoon on a homework assignment if his students wouldn't. 

(Of course, if he hadn't pushed back grading midterms for the sake of a few long dinners with his child's babysitter, well -- but Sylvia had thought it a real improvement, and Julia adored Newt's bedtime stories. He did the voices.)

There were giggles, high and low, from the sitting room.

Hermann stared narrowly at the two stacks of paper. One, much thinner, bled, and the other was yet unsullied.

He combined them with a few shuffles of his hands and binned the whole lot as he limped to the sitting room. His cane still sat against the table, which he'd likely regret, but what were they doing?

"What are you doing, Mr. Geiszler, painting my daughter's nails on the carpet?" Hermann leaned against the door frame, one eyebrow cocked.

"Papa, look!" Julia, beaming, leapt over and held up a hand for inspection.

Each finger was meticulously, perfectly filled in with a charming pastel pink. Moreover, Julia was luminous, staring down at her free hand and then grinning to that mad, overgrown child. "They are lovely," Hermann pronounced, letting a smile slip.

"I put a paper towel down, don't worry. I'm hella good at nails," Newt wiggled his right hand, the nails filled in with a shining black paint.

"Can you teach me? Mommy didn't like nail polish," Julia was tugging him, carefully, and Hermann somehow ended up sitting with his back against the couch. Newt tossed her a pillow, and she offered it to him. He willed himself to ignore a few flecks of pink against the merlot fabric and tucked it beneath his knee.

"It's more like a skill set," Newt was explaining, his forehead pressed together with Julia's as he worked on his other hand. Despite having thicker fingers, Newton had the grace and sureness of a surgeon, and he lightly touched the brush here and there, laying on five perfectly even coats.

Hermann shook his head, focusing once more on whatever the boy babbled (the boy, the boy, remember, your child's babysitter and a very young twenty-two besides). 

" -- like, just run another nail through it, take it up, and you get that nice sharp edge. Practice makes perfect, though. Just let these dry, then: na na naaaaaah, glitter time!"

Julia picked up the silver, sparkling bottle. She read the entirety of the label, including the chemical make-up of the product, with a crease between her eyebrows. "Okay. Just a little, though."

"Promise."

"How'd you learn to paint nails, though?"

For a moment, Hermann thought he had seen -- but, no. Newt was not terrified of anything. He was not terrified of the semi-rigorous standards of academic professionalism, as monster after monster erupted on his skin in full and living technicolor; he was not afraid of Hermann's temper or the so-called stress disorder or age-appropriate discussion of cute boys with a ten year old girl. And, and, besides, Newton would not ever need to direct such a look of longing at a widower with a shattered hip and a child.

"Um, my babysitter, actually. She, she was really into me being girly, and -- rock star, right? Super metal, black nail polish. And super, uh, Bowie, I guess, the glitter." He waggled his fingers in Julia's face, and she snorted out a laugh.

Hermann cocked his head, mouth opening slightly.

"You're lucky! I asked Mommy to teach me, but she said nail polish made her hands look like a linebacker's. I googled that, but it still doesn't make any sense. She taught me how to put on lipstick, though. You wanna see?"

"Julia, we don't have any lipstick," Hermann reminded her, as gently as he could. The rich red smear of Vanessa's smirking lips had been one of her daily rituals, no less androgynous than any of her other deeply American choices but -- enticing, nonetheless.

"Nuh uh, saved a tube. Be right back!"

The thumps traveled behind them and then over their heads. Newt drummed his fingers on the paper towel. After another few seconds of silence, he jiggled a leg and exploded: "Look, uh, if that was -- I mean, she's your kid, and I totally, totally respect that, and I, like, really respect how hard this has to be and how amazing you are as a dad, I mean, you really treat her like, I don't know, just a short person, but -- "

"You and Vanessa," Hermann cut in, waving his colorless hand, "Would have had much to discuss, I suspect. And," Dear Lord, listen to yourself, listen to the way your voice softens, wax under heat, "She would have adored you, as Julia and -- as Julia adores you."

Hermann paused, and he let himself look at Newt's flushed cheeks, his lower lip, before adding, "Please don't be sick on the carpet. I'd not like to pay for steam-cleaning."

Now he had actually broken into a light sweat, and he yelped out, "I -- I, I, she's an amazing kid, and -- "

"Got it," Julia crowed, bouncing back into the room with the lipstick in hand.

 

On Monday, Hermann explained that since the showings on the problem sets had been abysmal and he wished a sober demonstration of their prowess, they could all enjoy a "pop quiz." "Look to your right, ladies and gentlemen, as that person will then grade your work and correct any errors. Since the spirit of the pop quiz phenomenon is speed, I expect all of the graded quizzes on my desk tomorrow before we begin class. You may begin."

He sighed, with a grimace, after the last pale adolescent had drifted out.

Against his better judgment, he pulled out his phone and tapped back into his text messages.

Newt had sent him the picture, despite Hermann's filibuster about evidence and absurdity. All three of them, faces pressed close together, mouths made-up.

 

("Why, why in the name of God, did I think this was a good idea? Not only do I need to factor in the actual pop quiz but their grading of each other!"

They were elbow to elbow, as night became morning, and Newt was scrawling his way through two hundred short answer sections on a make-up exam mostly because the biology department had absolutely no standards for its lectures.

The boy knocked back another of those wretched jugs of coffee-flavored milk, nearly vibrating.

Hermann could feel those tremors, in his bones.

"Lemme help."

It was another night Newt stayed over, in the guest room. What was the guest room, as it now had a few drawers of his sleeping clothes and his strange handheld console and a smattering of DVDs across the floor, as well as his own sheets, and Hermann really was beginning to consider the petitions to repaint the baseboards teal and walls a dark purple, God help them all.)


	3. 12 October 2011 / October 13, 2011

_"What does Oidipous see, in the blank  
  
(but feminine; for the Greeks - nebulous term that is, "the Greeks" - the feminine, female body was the unmarked body, yet the feminine remained the alien, the enigmatic, the _ prodigium _)_  
  
_face of the Sphinx, her tail lashing gently against the edge of Thebe's abyss? Certainly it is not any narrative of his own life; the trauma of his abandonment and his wounding has left little Swollen Foot without self-critical capabilities. So, too, he commits manslaughter (perhaps, need I refer anyone to Goodhart or Girard?) against a man he should have murdered." -- pg. 18, "fourtwothree foot: The Therapeutic Question in Oidipous Tyrannos"; Vanessa Sycamore_  
  
  
"Hermann, this time is yours. How can we spend it to best benefit you?"  
  
Hermann loathed her questions; he loathed the soothing murmur of her voice and the directness of her gaze, bird-bright, raptor-cunning; he loathed the gentle swirl of DSM numbers she had hesitantly included on his receipts, knowing, always knowing, the less he paid the fuller Julia's college savings account grew. He loathed the serene tilt of her head, the sphinx's smile playing about her mouth.  
  
He loathed how her dove's belly silvering hair was exactly the same shade as Vanessa's. He loathed thinking of Vanessa in these moments, between sniveling into his handkerchief and pouring out some more utterly mundane and bearable feelings that this new, lonely body could no longer bear mundanely.  
  
"I have not very much to say, today. Things are -- things are going well, finally."  
  
"Professionally, you mean?"  
  
"Of course," He said, stiffly, shoulders stretching wide and taut.  
  
Sylvia nodded, not once picking up her pen or opening her notepad. "And Julia?"

Hermann let one shoulder fall, exhaling narrowly. Here was safer territory. "She's, hm, I suppose it's a dreadfully old-fashioned thing to say, about a girl, with all sorts of repulsive connotations, but she's blossoming. Intellectually, there was never any concern. Reading, devouring, really, has always been there for her, and she never neglected her studies in the past -- recently, I mean. But she has a few friends, which was a difficulty even before. The daughter surpasses the father, as Vanessa's precious Greeks might say. Well, doubtless they wouldn't say anything about their daughters -- "  
  
Sylvia laughed, with him: "No, I don't think so. It's wonderful to hear she's forming relationships among her peer group."  
  
"Yes, and she's quite refreshingly forward with the boys, both with flattery and criticism. Oh, and I wish I had a photo to show you; she's been writing and drawing constantly, Sylvia. She's  _writing_  again, but now she keeps a binder of the ... well, they're bloody grotesque. She devised some sort of turtle monster who gallops around with a ... grey blobby ... creature, I suppose, with tentacles. Sort of a warm grey, though. They seem to be great friends, from what I can tell," Hermann scrolled through his saved photos, but Newt hadn't texted him any of the little pictures. He slipped the phone away, before he would smile again at the 'tattoos' Newt had drawn up and down her arm.   
  
Children.  
  
"I'm so glad to hear that, Hermann," Sylvia's eyes had crinkled, with a genuine smile, and he straightened again, squaring his upper body with her. "It sounds as if you made the right choice after all, with the, what did you call him, hooligan biologist?"  
  
Hermann felt his shoulders hunch forward a little, and his ears prickled pink. "Ahm. Well. He is -- he is utterly wasted, in macrobiology and, good Lord, environmental science. He is an idiot and a very young twenty-two, really, very young, but -- for all of the strange Japanese cartoons and gauche body modifications and his inability to modulate his voice's volume, he. He is entirely dedicated to, to Julia, and I adore him."  
  
Sylvia tapped her pen against the notebook: "Julia does, you mean?"  
  
"Well, what else would I mean? Of course that's what I mean."  
  
She made a note, still smiling.  
  
He remembered to despise her, ears still rashy, but sessions weren't so terrible, when they talked only of Julia.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
"I don't understand, like, how you're all in my face with your moral high ground or whatever when, first, you're flagging hunter green left, like, that was an urban legend, probably, and also, uh, edgy, or whatever. Queering," Newt jammed his rapidly flickering fingers into Kai's smug face, and they belched right into his palms, and, gross,  _bourbon_ , and it would have been   
  
way quieter and calmer and, just, nicer finishing Wrinkle with Jules, who didn't have anything to say about his really fucked up crush on her dad. For obvious reasons like  _she could never fucking find out_.  
  
His really, really fucked up crush on her dad. Like, first off, hi, dad. Dad with a dead wife. Dad with a dead wife who kept an entire office as a shrine to said dead wife. Whose dead wife was -- whoa, okay, Vanessa, Vanessa, she was an actual person and not just this weird lady ghost who haunted people who put marshmallows in the brownie batter, although, like, possessing a nine year old and starting a brownie batter war because there were marshmallows in there was frigging heresy,  
  
sweet fluffy heresy. Mm, brownies, though.  
  
Brownies.  
  
"Honey, I think you were tryna win the argument," Slam pinched the side of his belly and jiggled him with his thighs: "You off the happy drugs gan?"  
  
"PUBLIC SPACE, right, queering public space, shut up, Slam, and I don't care, it's not just that he's got a -- "  
  
"Electra, Electra, let down your hair," Kai sniggered and shrieked, when Tara grabbed their chest and tugged. "Jesus fuck, what the -- "  
  
"Misgendering titty twister," Tara clicked her forefinger and thumb together and made a crab's foamy noise.  
  
"H-hey, thanks."  
  
"Naw, man, that shit's fucked up. You got daddy issues. I mean, whooooo doesn't, but, uh. You're getting really literal, you know? Just hop into a sling and get a fist up in, kids you don't limp off," Tara shrugged a shoulder, while Slam trilled a howl.  
  
Okay, look. He loved them. He did, he loved all of them, even Kai, even asshole Kai. In fact, he loved Kai because they were an asshole, an asshole who was better than any therapist he had ever had, and Kai had fucking taken a shit on the provost's lawn when drunk once and, like, c'mon. C'mon. And he loved Slam because sometimes Slam'd slap him in the face really, really good and was fucking beautiful as a woman and had they had, like, been in the Madoka trench together, okay? And he loved Tara because jesus she was a weed, a really sneaky little weed, and he needed that and cockroaches and perverts around him, as much as possible, or he'd just end up in a suit jacket and a tie, droning about biological sex to undergrads, but  
  
family could be fucking annoying, really fucking annoying, there was  _always_  incest in families, okay, always, there was always gonna be not enough room in the back of the car and I hate mashed potatoes well your brother likes them and they were all filthy creepy monsters anyway, why fucking family? Why not anything fucking else? Why not be a fucking clone hivemind, why not be everyone and not one, never alone, take your fucking Butler and shove it back up your unimaginative ass, Kai, so there, why not a fucking clone hivemind and why a family because if we all had the same brain it wouldn't fucking hurt anymore, right, right, there's an answer, everybody could have some of the load, it can be impossible, but there's a cure, it'll stop when I'm dead, sounds great,  
  
and no one wanted to hear about Julia's playdate which was apparently a big deal -- surprise, Hermann's kid was a social wreck, except now he acting like Kai cause who the fuck kept feeding him and walking him through handling freaking  _boring_  advisors and tucking afghans over him, over him when he fell asleep on the couch instead of going home to an empty studio and a dead beta fish he didn't wanna throw out cuz, whatever, Vikings needed a burial at sea --  
  
"I'll listen, about Julia's playdate," Kai said, half-smirking, around a mouthful of bourbon.  
  
"Oh, fuck."

"Baby," Slam squeezed his ribs and pinched his belly again, gently, "Baby, just. Baby," And he kissed the side of his neck, just a little open-mouthed.  
  
"Look, idiot," Tara pointed a finger directly at his nose, and he could feel his eyes cross: "You have the biggest mouth I've ever heard, bigger n mine, and you scare the shit out of me, baby, you really do. You scare the fucking shit out of me, and I love you, and I'm tired of seeing you jump for these dudes who can't even begin to take care of you, all right? If what you want is some benevolent toppy dictator, like, goddamn, that's what I want for you too, I guess, but -- "  
  
"Okay, so I really did fucking say it out loud,  _shit_  -- "  
  
"There go the margaritas," Kai whooped.  
  
"Your turn to mop em up, stud."  
  
Kai groaned but hopped out over Tara, rolling their eyes at the barkeep, and Slam was rubbing the back of his neck and cooing in Spanish (hot), and Tara half-carried him home while Kai pedaled his bike in lazy circles, and all right, whatever, whatever, kinship models came through sometimes.


	4. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza and the Soul Cyst

"You really ought to invest in a proper coat," Hermann tsked, holding out an arm for the trendy, sodden dish rag Newt had shivered out of.   
  
Newt hung up the coat himself, pointedly, and rolled his eyes: "It's Philadelphia, not the tundra, dude. I'm going to be fine."  
  
His nose was an endearing shade of pink.  _His child's babysitter's_  nose was an endearing shade of -- his child's babysitter's nose was pink from the cold, and Hermann had no opinions on the matter whatsoever.  
  
"Newwwwwwwww-heeeeeewt!" Julia drawled, finding his side like a leech flesh: "I bought your Christmas present! Papa helped. He bought you one too!"  
  
"Julia," Hermann sighed, feeling the familiar prickle at his cheekbones and ears, "It was to be a surprise."  
  
"He doesn't know what it is, though!"  
  
"It's totally still a surprise," Newton's whole face was an empirically charming shade of pink. "You guys, uh, didn't have to, geez."  
  
Julia squinted up at him, suspiciously. "You bought us gifts, right?"  
  
"Well ... duh."  
  
"So merry Christmas!"  
  
"Grew up celebrating Hanukkah, actually. Do you think we can three-leg it to the kitchen?" The little sloth nodded up at him, and Newt hobbled the both of them to the cramped table that more often saw dinner or hot cocoa or yelling matches over grading than the elaborate ekphrasis in the dining room.  
  
"Hanukkah has the candles. Julie and Elyse celebrate Hanukkah. And Caleb. And -- "  
  
"Do you want anything, Newt?" Hermann had a pot out, for said hot cocoa, and he realized, absently, that there was absolutely no reason for a babysitter to be here, whatsoever, unless he wished to be, and would his ears please,  _please_  leave off?  
  
"And Sarah and Anna and Joshie and -- "  
  
"Whatever you're having," Newt replied, out of the corner of his mouth. He had a way of listening attentively to Julia, perfectly attentively, but also not losing track of the whole of the world, and Hermann -- Hermann was objectively making hot cocoa. "Yo, gimme the abstract, here: who doesn't celebrate Hanukkah in your class?"  
  
"Tay-Tay celebrates Kwanza. So does Jamal, and they both have an Eat. I don't know what that is, though. Oh, and Rainbow Skye celebrates the Soul Cyst. And then me and Carlos and Elaine are Christmas. Papa, we're going to actually do Christmas this year, right? With a tree? I liked the tree."  
  
Hermann stirred the cocoa into the hot milk, fingers palsying for a brief moment. "If you like, dear heart."  
  
"Newt, Newt, hey, Newt, NEWT, what do you do for Christmas-Hanukkah-Kwanza-Soul-Cyst?"  
  
"I think it's Solstice, uh. A soul cyst would be, like, a big zit on your soul? But I usually order Chinese and watch anime."  
  
"With your family?" Julia's voice was probably subtly sly for her peer group, but the question she was asking rang out in adult conversation. Hermann knew all too well, what it was, to read of life but not yet have lived it. He glanced over his shoulder, at Newton.  
  
Newt drummed his fingers against the table, left heel beginning to bounce. "Alone. I mean, Kai and Tara and Slam and Cyree, they all have  _partners_ ," He waggled his fingers in Julia's face, and she chimed out a bright laugh, "So it's like they're dead, basically. Never see em, never hear from them. Um, and my ... well, I could visit my aunt, but she lives in Berlin, and I don't make that much money, you know? And I'm bad with my money, so. Getting a day off to eat Chinese and watch anime is kind of awesome, though."  
  
Julia wrinkled her nose: "So why is your mouth all pinched up?"

It was to make up for Julia's prying, Hermann assured himself; the polite and kind thing to do and the polite and kind thing to do only -- "You know, Newton, I'm not sure my leg will permit me to arrange the tree and roast a goose by myself."  
  
"Papa, does that mean NEWT CAN STAY OVER FOR CHRISTMAS?"  
  
"If he likes," Hermann shrugged, ladling out the cocoa and adding whipping cream from an aerosol can to Newt and Julia's mugs: there was really no accounting for taste.  
  
Newt really did grin like a boy. "Merry Christmas, I guess."  
  
"Happy Hanukkah!"  
  
"And Kwanza -- "  
  
"And SOUL CYST!"  
  
  
Of course, Newt had arrived with an enormous velvet sack, which he smirked off with, "Slam does drag, all right? Don't ask, don't tell, kinda thing." And, of course, Newt had worn the absurd hat.  
  
Julia carried the Sailor Moon DVDs around the house, as if they were a beloved teddy bear, and her nails already gleamed a spasming teal. Newt, for his part, had painted his nails a startling yellow and squeezed into the new 'Adventure Time' -- ??? -- t-shirt that was just a bit too well-sized for Hermann's comfort.  
  
Hermann, carefully, did not change into the soft, bulky sweater with exactly the atrocious sort of pattern he favored. The sweater would forever be less an armor than an immense intimacy, since someone else (your _child's babysitter_ ) had purchased you what you would have purchased for yourself. Every so often, he limped away to  _check the goose, I know_   _I'm being paranoid_  and ran his fingers over it.  
  
("Your vests are a little threadbare, man. And I know you get cold, a lot. Plus, the green, it matches your eyes, um. Oops, guess that was a little, uh, gay, haha. This recorder, though, this is great, I mean, I can't really type as fast as I can think and -- I guess you figured that out, and so you, I just. Thanks, Hermann. I. It means a lot, I haven't had a real Christmas in. I mean. Thanks. Thank you.")  
  
Hermann had burnt the goose; Newt's fresh fried mozzarella went excellently with spaghetti sauce from a jar. Hot cocoa went with anything. There may have been a war, with marshmallow ballistas, and Hermann had absolutely not joined in. Newton must have been flanked by an elf.  
  
Julia had attempted to make a Menorah out of newspaper and perhaps five gallons of Elmer's glue. Newt blinked a lot and put eight candles, instead, into the Bundt cake from the co-op and lit a ninth for the table. "I guess," He said as he ran his thumb over the lighter too many times for comfort, "We should do a prayer thing? Like, not in Hebrew, I forgot that pretty much as soon as I learned it, which is kind of a bummer now, I mean, I wish I hadn't, but, anyway, you start, Gam."  
  
"Why on  _earth_  do you call her -- "  
  
"Gamera, Papa, I'm Gamera because turtles wear spectacles too!" Julia crowed, kneeling on her chair  
  
He had been less confused before she explained, but he touched the back of her skull lightly and nodded.  
  
"And, um, I hope your dissertation stops sucking, and I hope Papa doesn't actually hang himself because introductory courses are tea-dee-us, and I hope Mommy's happy, and I hope we have a real Christmas together next year too. And a cat."  
  
"To our health," Hermann added, quietly, "Which would be better served without a cat."  
  
"Aw, Papa!"  
  
"To family," Newt said, and the  _Shamash_  sprang up.  
  
  
Julia, still wrapped around the bootlegged cartoons, was soundly asleep against Newt's side. Hermann, from his armchair, yawned widely. "Don't you think it'll be awkward, when Ernie wants to see Bert fill his bloody box?"  
  
"That's," Newt snickered, all too young in the disco light of the television, "What he said,  _hell_  yes, and, um, it totally is. But Ernie's in the same position, you know? He gave away Rubber Ducky for Bert."  
  
"They're both fools," Hermann groused, mouth twisting sharply, quickly.  
  
Newton plucked at his new shirt and shrugged, very loudly not saying anything.

Newt carried Julia to her bed, and Hermann followed stiffly.  
  
"Merry Christmas," She muttered as she was tucked in.  
  
Newt pulled her glasses off: "Happy Hanukkah, Jules."  
  
"And Kwanza," She squinted.  
  
"And the Soul Cyst," Newt laughed, softly, and kissed her forehead.  
  
"Love you, Aunt Beast," She whispered, which made precisely as much sense as turtles wearing spectacles, but Newt kissed her hair again, and Hermann stopped watching, before his indigestion became more acute. It was indigestion, after all, that tightness and heat just there. It ought to be. It was.  
  
"You'll stay," Hermann murmured, as Newt shut her door.  
  
"Well, yeah. You, uh, you hit the shandy or something? You're all pinked up -- "  
  
"I may have over-exerted myself," Hermann cleared his throat: "Thank you, for being here. I can't manage on my own. Couldn't. Couldn't have managed. Physical, sort of holiday. Managed Christmas, I mean."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, no, yeah," Newt stammered over him.  
  
Newt's hug smelled of some sort of dreadful cheap cologne and his sweat and spaghetti sauce and the mall that tacky shirt had come from and a thousand other mundane and stale scents which Hermann could have licked off a spoon. Hermann hadn't even realized, that he had wrapped an arm about his back, and their foreheads drifted dangerously close before he cleared his throat again and stumbled backward.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Hermann," Newt smiled, beamed, really.  
  
"Happy Hanukkah, Newt," Hermann replied, and his exhausted leg couldn't keep his mouth from quirking upward.


	5. 11 August 2012

_scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaape  
  
weightlessness spinning   
  
her hoarse breath hot pain nothing  
  
her hoarse breath  
  
not even a sound it couldn't be it couldn't be  
  
wet cold  
  
wet cold?_  
  
"Hermann, c-c-can you tell me about what you're holding? Please. Anything, any sense, all of them. Please talk to me, please."  
  
 _wet cold_  
  
"C'mon, Herm, please. Please."  
  
"Wet. Cold."  
  
"That's -- that's great! Yeah, it's cold. It's definitely cold, and it's a little sweaty since your stupid historic house doesn't, okay, right, focusing, focusing  _now_. What else? Anything else?"  
  
 _smooth shining hurts_  
  
"Smooth. It's smooth. Shining. Glass?"  
  
"That's right! Yeah, it's a glass. Hey, do you have your feet flat on the floor? Just, yeah, just like that. You're doing super great, like, super great, all right?"  
  
 _why is he so upset_  
  
"It has water in it; that's why it's cold."  
  
"I think, I think you're back with me. Are you -- are you back with me?"  
  
Newt was staring up at him, crouched next to his right leg, breathing far too quickly and blinking frequently. His eyes were a little smeared, behind the smudged lens of his spectacles.  
  
"Okay, wait, not yet, let's not -- let's not drop the glass, okay, okay,  _okay_ , you're touching my face, got it, all right, cool, uh."  
  
 _don't cry_  
  
He was unshaven, as usual, and his cheek bit at his fingertips, just slightly. It was a good pain, the pain of a limb waking or blood speeding, after a hard jog. He was a little oily, a little sweaty, but the day had been hot. Newton had said any sense, but surely he couldn't have meant taste as well?  
  
"Hermann, I think I'm gonna call Sylvia, all right? I'm really, really fucking sorry. I don't know what I did -- was it the yelling? I didn't mean to -- I mean, here, I'm just going to take your phone and call Sylvia, and it's gonna be fine, I promise. I'll crash in the guest room or sit by your bed, I won't leave, I'm not gonna leave you, okay? Either of you, promise."  
  
Had his neck and shoulders always hurt this way? They were so tight that the agony was white-hot, and he imagined his muscle, coils of steel, knotted around his flimsy skeleton, glowing red, smelted.  
  
Oh, dear Lord.  
  
He was cupping Newt's cheek in one hand, twisted over himself and breathing slowly but unevenly.  
  
He was touching Newton.  
  
"I'm sorry," He managed, but he was too pinned by   
  
 _pinned by_  
  
"Hey, look at me. Hermann. Please stay with me, please. I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry, whatever it was, never again, I swear to god, just don't leave again."  
  
"Are you pinching my wrist? Or am I --"  
  
"Yeah, no, it's me, I'm pinching your wrist, is it helping?"  
  
"Yes, actually. I need -- I need a heat pack, please. My shoulders are -- "  
  
"On it!" Newt rolled back and up. He wrapped both of Hermann's hands around the wet, cold glass. "Hang onto that for me, okay?"

  
  
They had moved to the sitting room.  
  
He had all but collapsed into his favorite recliner. It was overstuffed and mammoth, an extravagance crafted from a honeyish leather, and it cradled his spine and hip just so. Newt had wrapped one of Vanessa's heat packs, a soft flannel stuffed with corn, around his neck and shoulders, and the poor boy had dragged in a kitchen chair, to sit just beside him.  
  
"I am sorry," Hermann murmured, cheeks pink. Speaking was difficult; he wanted very much to sleep for the next few weeks. He licked his lower lip: "You should not have had to see that, let alone handle it."  
  
"I'm not your kid," Newt snapped, "A kid. I'm not a kid. I'm -- " He stammered incomprehensibly for a few moments before snatching Hermann's hand up in both of his own.  
  
Hermann cleared his throat, but he managed to lace one set of Newt's fingers through his own. They both of them had clammy palms.   
  
 _Child's babysitter_.   
  
"I, I'm. I'm impressed. You were very composed."  
  
"Um, seriously? I can't tell if I pissed myself or just, like, sweated my cutoffs into this state. Fuck historic row homes or whatever, man. Team Central Air. Team Fuck Nice Things, Gimme Central Air. I was scared shitless. Seriously. But don't fucking apologize again. You know, queer, everyone I know has  _something_ , so. Glad it came in handy for you, you know? Glad I was here, although maybe I caused it -- "  
  
Hermann shook his head, eyes shut again. The pain had slithered up to his temples. "A student, a Kade D'Angelo, she. Well, I suppose... She, for now, at any rate, passed by me in the hall, and she was using a word very lightly that is very ugly."  
  
Newt's hand tightened around his own.  
  
"I won't have anyone talk about her, or you, that way, and -- and in a few more days, it will have been two years since the accident, and I've been ... very aware, I suppose. But you noticed that."  
  
"Y-yeah," Newt was grinning, weakly, but he looked brilliant, brilliant and young, and he really was a kid, a very, very old kid, and none of this, none of it, was all right any longer, "I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a stubborn  _asshole_ , but we've had that argument, like, eighty times? I mean, I complain about self-replicating cycles of incompetence and, yeah, abuse in the academy because we don't need pedagogy, right, we just need more labs, more money, more numbers, Der Grammar, whatever, and you agree, and it's only an argument because you start waxing poetic about smaller class sizes and mandatory office hours, like that's all not just the symptoms, and we only start arguing because you're windbagging it up -- "  
  
"I suspect," Hermann said, dryly, "At some point, you were trying to tell me that you've noticed I haven't been ... myself."  
  
"Oh, right! Thanks, dude. Yeah, so when you, I don't know, called me an idealistic prat, I figured you needed some Super Saiyan hot chocolate, which is why I was messing around with the stove, like, only for you, without central air, would I make hot chocolate Imah's way, like -- "  
  
"It was the scrape of the pot against the range, I think," Hermann cut in.  
  
"Oh, jesus, yeah, okay, I'm really fucking sorry, like I'm really, really sorry, I had no idea -- "  
  
"And neither did I, my dear boy, so there's really nothing ... "  
  
Newt, nakedly, looked at him with love written against his cringing smile and blurry eyes; Newt looked at him and saw ( _very well_ , Sylvia) the post-traumatic stress disorder and the shattered hip, his neuroses and faults. Newt saw too what many would find his strengths and virtues. Newt saw all of him, but Newt still held his hand and cried for his sake -- and for Vanessa too and for Julia -- and Newt was already a part of this family whether or not they continued to pretend otherwise.  
  
Hermann had never been so frightened, in the entirety of his life.  
  
"Thank you, for everything you have done tonight. I. I ought to get some sleep."

 

_shwoop_   
  
**_Aug 19, 2012 8:03AM_ **   
**I realize this is incredibly short notice, but Pranton sent a reminder email with an emoji, as you say, about the department reception for whoever this autumn's celebrity of the week is. Could you watch Julia? I won't be home later than nine.**   
  
_beep_   
  
**_2012 August 19 0803_ **   
**yeh**   
  
_shwoop_   
  
**I can pay you double the usual, since I'm afraid I forgot to mention it at all.**   
  
_beep_   
  
**u dont need to pay me**   
  
_shwoop_   
  
**Newton.**   
  
_beep_   
  
**yeh**   
  
_beep_

**8:05AM**   
**?????????**

_beep_   
  
**8:06AM**   
**you left early this morning**   
  
_beep_   
  
**8:10AM**   
**your draft is still on the counter**   
  
_beep_   
  
**8:17AM**   
**seriously dude?**

_shwoop_  
  
 **8:24AM**  
 **My phone is about to run out of battery, sorry. I won't be out late. She has a playdate with Tayneisha until 1600 today. If you could just drop her off. Sorry about this, again. Tell Julia I'm sorry for being short with her, earlier. Sorry.**  
  
"Aunt  _Beeeeeeee_ heast, can you walk me to Tay-Tay's house? We're going to the park and then the pool. You can come too, if you want. Aunt Beast? Newt?" Jules sounded half-frantic.  
  
Newt picked himself up off his -- the bed, knotted up the trashcan liner (room still smelled like puke, whatever, food poisoning, right, maybe that'd explain the burnt milk she had probably already found and the ruined pot, yeah, food poisoning, food poisoning). He squeezed himself into a dirty shirt but a different pair of shorts, ran his fingers through his hair.  
  
"Roger that, Gammy," He opened the door and ruffled her hair, and she hugged him too hard and too fast. "Uh, oh, right, your -- your dad said sorry for being short with you, whatever that was about."  
  
"I don't know. Papa's weird. C'mon! Can we maybe get ginger beer on the way?"  
  
"Breakfast of champions, sure."  
  
He let her lead.


	6. Like, FINALLY

Her throat hurt.  
  
Newt's room was empty, and the hallway was really dark, which meant the stairs were dark, and Papa always warned her that she could trip, going down dark stairs, but she was so  _thirsty_.  
  
Gamera wouldn't trip.  
  
Or be scared of the dark.  
  
Julia knew it was silly, but she lifted her legs up really high and rampaged down the hallway, swinging her arms around. She was a monster, so if she met any ... they'd get some water together! And introduce them to Aunt Beast.  
  
Or maybe the rest of the ginger beer, if Aunt Beast was asleep. Maybe he'd be up, though, and they could make brownies and eat the special delicious ice cream, and Papa'd sigh at them in the morning, but she never got into trouble, really, when she did something with Aunt Beast. Papa always smiled through the lecture, like, under his grumpy face, and he only yelled at Newt, and Newt smiled too, but he did it big.  
  
Gamera felt her mighty, turtle-y way to the kitchen, hand on a wall.  
  
Papa was home! She could hear him, sort of. She could hear the hum of his Serious Voice, and she could hear Newt being loud too, but it was his squeaky loud, so ...  
  
"Yes," Papa said, and he was smiling so she wasn't in trouble for saying the thing to Aunt Beast. Which she hadn't even meant, but he could get  _super_  annoying when he started to shaky-talk like that. But it was still really mean, really really mean.  
  
"To everything? Just like that? Yes? That's it? Not gonna talk about, about anything?" Oh, he was extra squeaky now, so maybe they were fighting?  
  
"We will, just -- "  
  
She shrugged, opened the fridge in centimeters and snuck a swig of the ginger beer.  
  
Then, Gamera lifted the plastic stool from the bathroom sink and carried it into the kitchen, climbing up onto the counter skyscraper and grabbing the brownies, um, Brownira from the very top of the cabinet building. If she said she was sad about Mommy, Papa'd probably even help make them. Um. Kill Brownira.  
  
And she  _was_  sad, but she wanted brownies, and maybe it'd help Papa remember if she showed him the notebook too, and they might be able to watch an episode of Sailor Moon, even. Papa had started halfway through, and he sighed a lot during, but he kept asking her about who all of the sailor senshi were, so he liked it. He hummed the theme song. Newt sang it. In Japanese.  
  
Gamera skipped to the sitting room, Brownira clutched to her shell.  
  
Oops.  
  
"Hi, Papa. Hi, Newt. So I guess you're both kissing now?"  
  
Papa had been sitting against Newt's knee, on his special armchair, and Aunt Beast was getting the leather all greasy with his hair, and there was a whole bowl of ice cream on the carpet, and Papa had the collar of Newt's sleep t-shirt, the one with the Triforce, in his hand, and they were like  
  
 _kissing_  kissing, which was okay but not great, but maybe Carlos was just kind of bad at it? Tay-Tay was better, but Carlos was cuter.  
  
Now Papa's ears were turning purple-red, and he was blinking a lot.  
  
Newt looked confused too.  
  
Gamera'd help.  
  
"You were kissing, which I have definitely never ever done, Papa. I want brownies. Can we make some? Tomorrow's Saturday. Maybe we should pick up the ice cream first, though. And then get more?"  
  
"Oh, jesus, okay, I'm really sorry, Jules -- "  
  
"Gamera!"  
  
"Gammy, sorry, uh, this is -- sorry -- "  
  
"What, like, I know what  _kissing is_. Mommy and Papa kissed each other all the time. Not snoggy like that, though. Does this mean we can paint your room, Newt?"  
  
"We can," Papa agreed.  
  
"Can we make brownies?"  
  
"We can," Papa said again, and he was grinning the smile where his face turned into a hill, and Aunt Beast was grinning too, hiding behind the collar of his shirt, and it was definitely the best Friday night, ever.


End file.
